affable and entertaining; he never let himself be angry, he never asked for anything, he never complained, he never scolded.  When she made engagements and broke them, he met her next day with a smiling face; when she excused herself, he said it did not matter.  He never let her see that she pained him.  He understood that his passionate grief had wearied her, and he took care to hide every sentiment which could be in the least degree troublesome.  He was heroic.

Though she never mentioned the change, for she did not take any conscious notice of it, it affected her nevertheless:  she became more confidential with him; she took her little grievances to him, and she always had some grievance against the manageress of the shop, one of her fellow waitresses, or her aunt; she was talkative enough now, and though she never said anything that was not trivial Philip was never tired of listening to her.

“I like you when you don’t want to make love to me,” she told him once.

“That’s flattering for me,” he laughed.

She did not realise how her words made his heart sink nor what an effort it needed for him to answer so lightly.

“Oh, I don’t mind your kissing me now and then.  It doesn’t hurt me and it gives you pleasure.”

Occasionally she went so far as to ask him to take her out to dinner, and the offer, coming from her, filled him with rapture.

“I wouldn’t do it to anyone else,” she said, by way of apology.  “But I know I can with you.”

“You couldn’t give me greater pleasure,” he smiled.

She asked him to give her something to eat one evening towards the end of April.

“All right,” he said.  “Where would you like to go afterwards?”

“Oh, don’t let’s go anywhere.  Let’s just sit and talk.  You don’t mind, do you?”

“Rather not.”

He thought she must be beginning to care for him.  Three months before the thought of an evening spent in conversation would have bored her to death.  It was a fine day, and the spring added to Philip’s high spirits.  He was content with very little now.

“I say, won’t it be ripping when the summer comes along,” he said, as they drove along on the top of a ’bus to Soho—­she had herself suggested that they should not be so extravagant as to go by cab.  “We shall be able to spend every Sunday on the river.  We’ll take our luncheon in a basket.”

She smiled slightly, and he was encouraged to take her hand.  She did not withdraw it.

“I really think you’re beginning to like me a bit,” he smiled.

“You are silly, you know I like you, or else I shouldn’t be here, should I?”

They were old customers at the little restaurant in Soho by now, and the patronne gave them a smile as they came in.  The waiter was obsequious.

“Let me order the dinner tonight,” said Mildred.

Philip, thinking her more enchanting than ever, gave her the menu, and she chose her favourite dishes.  The range was small, and they had eaten many times all that the restaurant could provide.  Philip was gay.  He looked into her eyes, and he dwelt on every perfection of her pale cheek.  When they had finished Mildred by way of exception took a cigarette.  She smoked very seldom.